Watch the World Burn to Ashes
by theaustralianboxen
Summary: A story revolving on the pyromaniac of the industry. He really needs more love, eh? Anyways, no one read it before so I'm rewriting this summary.    R&R or I'll pop out of your computer screen and shove Smosh cookies down your throat.
1. Prolougue

THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING THEAUSTRALIANBOXEN.

Note to readers: Yes, the names of the companies and some canon characters are changed. I did that because this is a school project I decided to post, and if I used the actual names, I'd have an angry literacy teacher on my Canadian behind.

AUTHOR'S NOTE OVER.

A bead of sweat ran down the defined jawbone, leaving a streak of salty dirt in its path. Jagged breaths filled the still air of the sewer, lungs desperate to get oxygen to a depleted blood supply. The blue suit the man wore was stained crimson, his own blood pouring into the polluted water below, leaving a trail not soon to be forgotten. Panicked eyes looked back, horrified at the prospect of seeing the beast that stalked the poor man. The loud sounds of his footsteps sloshed against the scum filled walls, breaking the silence that usually filled empty pipes. Ahead of him, lay the opening. If he could only get there in time, he'd be free. Free to roam the warm August heat that came with New Mexico summers. Free to iron his now ruined pinstriped suit. Free to read the newspaper headlines from last year's papers, such as "Star in '61". Free to live. He snapped back to reality as his ears picked up sound from behind him. It was coming. It was closing in. He vocalized his fear in one sharp note, pure trepidation filling his usually smooth voice.

A shadow of a ghost in the wind followed behind, wicked grin invisible to any that looked upon the figure. It was truly a sight from Hell. A thick rubber suit and a gas mask covered every inch of skin on the demon. In one hand, he carried a can of petroleum. In the other, a simple black lighter. He was a pyrotechnician. He specialized in burning things. And right now, the brown haired man in front of him was that thing. So what? They may be teammates in the war that silently raged, away from the eye of America. But he needed to burn something. He needed his plan to work. And he needed him to die.

Jordan Bertrand ran harder than he ever had before. He felt his designer shoes slip on the algae beneath him. He felt his lungs and muscles burn in effort, begging- no screaming for him to stop. But he couldn't. His adrenalin had run dry long ago, when the hunt first started. He didn't know why he was the prey. He didn't know why his own friend had turned on him. He just knew he had to live. Thoughts rivaling his worst nightmares swirled in his mind, plummeting him into a state of panicked depression. He could make it, right? He would live! He was almost there. Almost there…

SMACK. The sound of bone breaking against concrete filled Jordan's eardrums. Instinctively, his hand reached for his now broken nose. He looked ahead, to be greeted with the sight of muck water and dull cement. H-he fell? What? How...In a desperate attempt to live, the man tried to stand up and gain his footing again, only to fall back down on his stomach, bruising several ribs. He screamed in terror as he felt a thick boot come down against his back. He reached towards the sewer opening; screaming in his native tongue, hope slipping away as black clouds covered the desert sun outside.

The smell of gas overpowered the smell of decomposition in the tunnel as the petroleum covered the writhing body beneath the demon's foot. He laughed manically, the sound only worsened by the muffling effect of the gas mask. The apathetic goggles looked down on the French espionage agent as the empty can was thrown aside.

Words escaped the devil's mouth, meaning still clear despite being distorted.

Green eyes opened wide, and Jordan's struggling intensified. His voice cracked and his throat was sore. No one could hear him. No one was coming to save him. No one was going to know that the man he once called a brother did this to him.

Moments later, a figure could be seen exiting the sewer, thick rubber suit covered in a black ash like substance. Behind him, the tunnel was bright with a weird flame. The stench of charred skin and hair was covered by the smell of waste products. The man fingered his lighter fondly, smiling lightly as he walked up the ladder exiting the trench. His mind wandered back to the tunnel. The beautiful flame, the glorious sounds of his victim screaming for his life, the sweet tears evaporating from the heat of the moment… It was so awe-inspiring. Unfortunately, now his squad was one member short. But, woe is life. Because in the end, Spies always burnt the best.


	2. I like thunderstorms

THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING THEAUSTRALIANBOXEN.

Short chapters are short.

The dark black clouds rolled like powerful beasts over the barren desert landscape. The sand was dark red, stained with blood and the rain of the foreboding storm. Lightning temporarily light the whole desert up, staining everything a bright white for a few brief seconds. Then the thunder took over, shaking the mountains themselves, causing proverbially mudslides. Storms like this were rare. It was 1962, in the eastern side of what is today New Mexico. The effects of global warming had not set it yet, so storms like this monster were spawns of Satan himself.

At the bottom of one of those grand, mountain-like statues, lay two forlorn looking buildings. One was red. An old looking barn with a large Rocket Export Division logo sprayed to the side. The other was about one mile away from the barn. It was larger, more industrialized. The cold blue metal building had another logo on it. It belonged to Blueprints & Legalities Unlimited . Now, to any passerby, it would look like these buildings were abandoned, but that was far from the truth. In these two, solitary buildings waged one of the most inhumane wars unknown to the human race.

The two bases were known as "Teufort". It was one of the fifty so locations the war was fought. Now, I owe you an explanation about this war. It was a private war, fought between two companies. Rocket Export Division, RED, and Blueprints & Legalities Unlimited, BLU. Together, these companies literally own the world. These monster-sized beasts own every government, in every country. It may not seem like it, but it's the truth. These companies used to be one. It used to be called Mann Co Supply Company in the 30's. The illustrious Kelly Mann owned the super sized company. However, tragedy struck the Mann family in 1956. Kelly Mann died. No one knows how, but it's suspected it had to do with Kelly's two sons. Drew and Christian Mann were brothers. And vicious competitors. They both wanted to own the company. However, it turned out neither of them did. Kelly gave half his company to each son. Driven by rage and hatred for each other, they grew apart, creating their own companies. Drew created BLU, and Christian took RED. One would set up a factory, and the other would build one right beside it. This lead to problems, so one would hire mercenaries to protect the factory. And the other would hire mercenaries to attack the other.

That led to war. The brave (and slightly insane) mercenaries of both sides were brain washed with propaganda. The other side was monsters. They would kill you in your sleep, then torture your family and make them eat your remains. Most people signed a three-year contract. They needed the money, or needed to release steam. But both companies were smart enough to know that if the public found out about their little dispute, they would have a few lawsuits on their hands. So when they signed that cursed contract, they fought until they died.

Rain pounded down upon the steel compound, sounding like deep percussion at some sort of heavy metal band. The sturdy building shook at the very base once the loud vocals of the thunder screamed, making the fans scream loudly, force of the wind pushing at the beams that held the building together. Inside, the nine mercenaries sat solemnly in the mess hall, dark circles tugging at their eyes. They fought the other soulless team for days on end, and the storm provided them with their first break in months. But it did not seem like a break. The threat of the whole structure collapsing on them and the other workers inside hung above their heads, like a politician smiling mockingly at them. Fate was against the tired soldiers, and it was obvious that they were getting annoyed with it.

Sharp eyes grated against each other, preparing a fight for even sharper tongues. It was these rare days off that destroyed their morale. When they were forced to fight, forced to watch each other's backs, they were like a family. But when they weren't, they were each other's sharpening blocks. Tensions ran high and voices were raised higher. It didn't help that one of the key members of their teammates was found burned in the sewers earlier that day. With a storm like this, they wouldn't be able to get a replacement for another good three weeks. As soon as the weather improved, RED would learn a lesson that they would never forget. Do not ever mess with the BLU mercenaries at Teufort.

"Hey! Mumbles! Pay attention, geez!" A red haired wiry American glared over at his colleague.

Warm brown eyes flicked at the baseball player, and their owner's form leaned back in the old wooden chair. It took about two seconds for him to analyze the situation, and it was quickly deemed boring. His head turned, and looked out the thin glass pane that held the rain back. The scenery was grey. So dull. It reminded him of the emotion that he saw in his own eyes when he looked at them every morning in the mirror. Sure, Eda had a lot to be happy about. He was living the dream. He did what he loved, and got paid handsomely for it. $20 000 a year for simply standing around and watching people drop like flies in front of him all day. He should be happy. He should keep his chin up.

His broad shoulders sagged momentarily, temporarily failing to support his short frame. A heavily scarred and calloused hand went up, brushing the messy orange hair off his defined cheekbone. The dark cargo pants and simple standard issued BLU t-shirt complimented his slightly tanned skin, an indicator to his partial Vietnamese ancestry. His handsomely angled face gave way to his outward personality. On first glance, one would assume based on his appearance and expression, he was intelligent to some degree. If not that, at least mentally stable. But, you can't judge a book by its cover. Brown eyes hiding his inner insanity snapped back to the people around him.

"Maggot! I will not stand to have-" started a sturdy looking man, military helmet covering most of his face except his mouth.

"Listen, Herr Jane. Just because I'm German does not mean that I'm-" replied the tall, medical expert of the team.

"Do not interrupt me, you spineless scum! You're in the United States of America now! We are the land of the free! The land of the brave! We are a democracy! I won't stand to have a German terrorist and a communist spy in this base!"

The raven-haired German man frowned deeply, griping onto his utensils. He cursed that other man in German loudly. "Du bist ein schwein!"

A muscular looking Russian giant sitting next to the medic frowned deeply. "Why do little men fight? We are a team, yes? And there is nothing wrong with communism."

The half Dutch, half Vietnamese man could practically hear blood vessels popping in their self-dubbed commanding officer, Jane Doe. "DO NOT LOOK AT ME, I DID NOT ASK YOU A QUESTION. AND BESIDES, COMMUNISM IS A SIN. IT IS AN ABOMINATION TO THE HONORABLE JOHN F KENNEDY. WHY, IF HE WAS HERE-"

A smooth voice filled the air, every word laced with venom and a clear disliking of the loud soldier. "If John Kennedy was present, he'd be ashamed of your despicable behavior, Mr. Doe. And besides, democracy is a flawed dream. As long as humans exist, it will be imperfect. Communism in theory surpasses the humanity of democracy."

All eyes were on Eda, some shocked by his reaction. He was the silent member of the team, usually sticking to himself unless it was to talk to the engineer, Dell Conagher.

The loud-mouthed American sat there for a second, jaw slack. He wasn't accustomed to such blatant disrespect from such a highly valued member of the team. In mere seconds though, that slack jaw was replaced with a tight frown. "You are all weak! You are all bleeders! I joined this team to kill maggots like you!" Disapproval hung heavily in the air around. His fellow teammates, however, rolled their eyes at his usual talk. Talk had it that he had a few screws lose after coming out of the Great War alive. He turned on his heel and marched towards the door, saluting them with an "L" formation with his fingers on his forehead. "Dismissed, MAGGOTS."

A collective sigh of relief filled the room as his heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. James, that wiry baseball playing American, looked at Eda. "Hey... You ain't that bad mumbles."

Eda snorted and turned away, walking out of the mess hall and started down the hallway to his room.

In his hand, he gently flipped and turned a black lighter, a favorite possession of his.


	3. The 3 S's of being a traitor

James Smith was not a brave person. Not in the least sense of the word. He looked at the mirror on his wall and sighed, slipping a black tank top over his head. He was hired by BLU to be a scout; to run ahead of the team and grab important intelligence. Sure, he had the physique for it. He was tall and lanky, thin frame perfect for running due to years of being on the track team. His short red hair and his freckled face gave him a look of a bumpkin child, making his opponents underestimate his skill. However, he didn't belong here. At 19, he was fresh out of high school and wet behind the ears. Whenever he heard the explosion of a rocket, or the spin up of a mini-gun, he ran in fear to the safety of his only friend on the base, a rugged Australian sniper named Lachlan.

A soft tapping came from the old wooden door that separated the small room from the hallway. 

"Oi, bloody gremlin. You ready?"

The young American boy smiled slightly at the blunt voice of a friendly face. Picking up his metal baseball bat, he opened the door to be greeted with the sight of a tall, burly looking man. A hunter's hat and orange tinted sunglasses mixed with the long kukri blade on his hip gave him a rather unsociable persona.

"Geez, you old crocodile. Way to be impatient." With a small laugh, he punched the other's shoulder playfully. "Of course I'm ready. Let's go."

The pair left the messy room, walking down the eerily quiet hallway. Subconsciously, James moved closer to the taller man, their shoulder's brushing. The suppressing silence was creepy, and it caused the runner to get nervous. When his nerves got him, he either rambled on for hours about anything and nothing, or he got trigger happy. This moment was critical though. If he did either, they would be find out. Someone would question them, and where they were going. Then the whole operation would be over, and they would be dead.

Blue eyes anxiously scanned the surroundings as the duo left the protection of the blue building. The cool desert air stung his tender flesh, leaving goose bumps to have their way with his skin. Sure, during the day time, James knew these grounds like the back of his hand. But during the night, everything was different. The shadows lingered on his skin, their invisible hands pulling him closer to the depth of the nothingness. Being raised in Boston, it was horrifying that a place could have such a lack of sound at night. The sound of his runners crackling against the rough sand echoed throughout the empty space, making his hairs stand at attention.

"It took you two long enough."

James jumped, pulling out his sub-machine gun and pointed it at the direction that the voice came from. Rolling his eyes, the Australian put his hand on the gun, forcing the younger to lower it.

"You're really one to talk, Gabriele. We were supposed to meet two weeks ago until you and your RED sissies chickened out."

Out of the shadows of the nothingness, walked a lean man. His whole outfit screamed business and authority, from the red pinstriped suit to the equally red balaclava that hid his facial features from the world. Walking towards the two BLU mercenaries, the RED member pulled out a gorgeous looking revolver. The handle was made of a rich looking cherry wood, and the silver barrel was adorned with the likeness of a woman that looked like she was sent from God himself.

"It is not my fault that you idiotic BLU's thought pulling a surprise attack on us was a good idea."

Muscles in the youngest one's back eased as he felt more comfortable with the presence of the RED. "You still could've come and talked to us! 'sides, thanks to your waiting, Jordan's dead! I mean, if we met earlier, you could've stopped your fire bug from killing him."

A click filled the air as the Frenchman named Gabrielle flipped open an expensive looking cigarette case, offering one to the BLU sharp shooter. Lifting the stick of solid cancer to his lips, he flipped open a intricate looking lighter and took a deep drag on the stick.

"Je suis vraiment désolé."

Putting his own cigarette to his mouth, the sniper took off his sunglasses and cleaned them of the minuscule dust that lay on them. "You're sorry my frilly arse."

James looked up at the other two men, glaring slightly. "C'mon. Are we just going to stand here all day or what? Let's get down to business already. I mean, for Babe Ruth's sake, the replay for the game's on later. I can miss it _again_."

The older, taller, stronger, and yet not nearly faster men exchanged a glance, both quietly entertained at their juniors impatience.

"Very well, Monsieur Smith. We will talk."

At first, the discussion was stiff and formal, time ticking by as slowly as the world turned around them. Then the words became personal, and moon shone bright. For hours, they stood there, changing positions occasionally, and formulated a plan to end all plans. Eyes dimmed and the stars hung high. Sentences ran on into each other, and a golden eagle flew over head, ignorant to the chaos that happened on a daily basis beneath it's awesome wings.

"So... That's our plan then? We're just going to round up everyone and attack?"

Gabriele leaned back from his cross-legged sitting position, supporting his upper body with his arms. "Oui. I do not think there is anything else we can do in our situation. We fighting some of the most powerful forces on the planet."

Loud popping sounds came from the scout's back as he stretched, body tired from a long day. "Alright then. So when are we going to meet again?"

Lachlan ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. "Hopefully in a few days."

With that, the three men stood up, shook hands, and left to their respectful bases. Each one had their own thoughts, own worries, own fears. Would their hair-brained plan work? It was a long-shot, even if you squinted and stood a couple feet back. Could they actually get the two teams of hired killers to put aside their differences, and their colors, and work together to stop this pointless war? Probably not. But they could still take on Christian and Drew Mann while being a few men short. Hopefully. Then again, what was hope to them? Where had their hope been when they stood out on the battle field, watching the men they called brothers die needlessly? Why should they turn to hope now? There was no logic to the war that they fought in, and that rubbed off. They were slowly abandoning logic, for something much more powerful. Hope.


	4. Prayer

The light scent of lavender filled the cramped room. A flame danced on top of a wax candle, painting extravagant pictures on the dark walls. Fire, no matter how small or seemingly harmless, was always a thing of wonder for mankind. It could light up powerless, sealed off rooms like the one the solitary candle stood in, or it could burn skin, causing pain and damage beyond anyone's wildest nightmares. The precarious plasma captured the heart of people everywhere. Especially one tortured soul that could be found kneeling in front of that simple candle, hands clasped together, mind and soul in a state of prayer.

"Dear God, please hear me now. I have followed your word faithfully ever since I first heard your calling all those years ago, during the Great War. I knew the moment I saw my neighbors in Chernobyl burn at the hand of the Germans. I knew since the moment they told me that they were your warriors; I knew then what you sent me here for."

"For years, I have lived by the fire. I have cleansed the human spirit in your glorious name. In the end, I know that you will destroy the earth with your heavenly flames. Until then Lord, I promise I will do my best to rid humanity of its dirt with my humble substitute. "

"But I do have one concern… Not that I question your holiness, all mighty one. It's just… Is it right that I have to kill my teammates? You sent me here to protect them and rid the world of RED's… But now they plan to join them. I don't know if I can do it… To bring death upon the ones I fight beside; the ones that are fighting for you as well… Are you sure this is what I'm supposed to be doing?"

Silence greeted the prayer.

As it always did.

In his time of weakness, Eda's consciousness took over. His mind swirled in a pit of despair at the things he had done… The life's he had taken.

"_You know Jordan, I don't want to kill you. I'm doing this because the __**Flames**__ told me I had to. I just wanted you to know that I will always think of you as my friend."_

Those were the last words that Jordan Bertrand ever heard. Eda said them with such conviction, such power in his injured voice.

A shudder ran through the mass murderer's body as he started to sob. He would always follow God's will. But he would never be able to wash the innocent blood off his hands. Affliction filled his cold brown eyes and he sat there, lamenting over how obsolete his life had become.


	5. Brudda

Flame and dust caressed James' face as he ran for his life, winding in the seemingly never-ending tunnels of the RED factory. Behind him, he could hear the heavy footsteps and screams of fury coming from RED's version of Jane. Adrenalin shot through his veins, causing the young boy to shoot forward, barely escaping the impact of a rocket. Over the loud chaos of the sounds of war and machines, he could vaguely make out the man behind him yelling something about spineless no good scumbags and intelligence stealing cowards.

Swallowing nervously, James took a sharp right, entering another hallway. Sweat poured down his brow, irritating his eyes. He didn't dare wipe it off thought. To be distracted with an enraged, rocket launcher wielding man was like putting a peewee player against Babe Ruth.

Amidst the fear and panic he felt, he managed out a dry snicker. Even when he was running into his almost certain death, he couldn't get his mind off baseball. The weight of the wooden bat slung over his back gave him courage. Courage to live to see tomorrow, so he could go back to his home. Go back and see his Ma, and all his brothers. In the few months he had worked here, he had missed his family more than he thought physically possible. He missed his 7 older brothers, and his loving Ma. He missed going to Sunday church, and the cookies that Ms. Springer, one of the ladies in the choir, would always bring for him.

An explosion went off beside him, signaling that the man behind him was getting even more pissed off. With a laugh, he turned around, firing off a few rounds from his SMG.

"You're a disgrace to that fancy military uniform of yours, pal!"

Cackling like a hyena, he turned back around, running from the multiple rockets now headed his way. It wasn't long before the red head lost him though. Even the RED's couldn't keep up with a runner in the maze that was their base. Leaning against a wall, the Bostonian panted, finally wiping the grime out of his eyes. Laughing weakly, he released his white-knuckled grip on his gun.

"Dat? Dat was freaking intense man..."

"No kiddin'. Did ya see how red Solly's face was? Man, ya made him real mad."

James froze. Wasn't this hallway empty? Oh geez, oh geez , oh geez! He wasn't ready! Aw for the love of-

A laugh filled the air and a hand rested on James's shoulder. "Relax, buddy. It's just me."

Turning his head, the BLU member was greeted with the sight of his RED counterpart. The RED member's face was covered in dirt, his blond hair stained with mud. His green eyes met the RED's blue ones, and he laughed nervously.

"Sorry, Avery. I thought you were like, I dunno. Maybe your mumble freak?"

The scout named Avery chuckled leaning against the wall with his friend. "Seriously? I ain't no freak, brudda. Calm yerself down. I was just chilling out with Gabriele when I heard ya screaming like my sista on Halloween."

A loud smack filled the air, and Avery rubbed his arm, now bruised thanks to James' wicked punch.

"Shut up man! If you had an insane war veteran on your butt, you'd be screaming too!"

"Awright, awright. No need ta get yer knickers in a bunch, pally."

Silence stretched between the two young mercenaries for a moment, one trying to catch his breath, and the other inwardly grinning at the other's state.

"So..."

"Yeah? Ya wanna say somethin', spit it out Smith."

"You, me, the snipers, and spies are meeting up again tonight?"

Avery tapped his foot against the floor, twirling his pistol on his finger and looking bored. "I guess. We also got our firebug and truckie on board."

"Okay, I get why you would bring your engineer, but there's no way that that mute freak show is coming."

"Huh?"

Confusion welled up in blue eyes, pistol going back to its holster. Avery scanned his cousin, wondering why he wouldn't want someone to join their cause. Admittedly, the New Yorker was no genius when it came to reading body language. But in this case, the unsaid words pouring off the other might as well have been in size 72, font comic sans, and colored neon green. The runner was hunched over, shoulders tense. His hands twitched on his gun, almost screaming for blood. His usually bright green eyes were dark, tainted with vengeance.

"Whoa, brudda! What's wrong? It looks like ya ran through traffic or somethin'."

"He killed him." James' Boston accent wavered as he said those three words, filled with such hate. "Your freaking pyromaniac _killed_ Jordan."

Not being that bright, Avery blinked, confused even further. "Uh.. yeah. We're at war heyah. It's his job, knucklehead."

White hot rage filled the teenagers veins. Jordan was his friend. Lachlan, Jordan, and him. They were like brothers. They had each other's backs. War or not, no one killed his family.

Blinded by raw emotions, Avery's cousin got up off the wall, looking at him, green eyes radiating with abhorrence. The clattering of a standard SMG filled the air, followed with a loud smack, a clenched fist meeting ribs.

Blue eyes wide, Avery looked up at James, surprised.

"He was more of my family than you ever could be."

In the moments that followed, fists flew at each other, guns forgotten. Bruises covered the lean bodies of the scouts, contrasting with the blood that poured from their wounds. In a fury of red and blue, resentment exuded from them both, breaking any family bonds that they once had. All over a simple misunderstanding.


	6. Beatlemania

"They're really rocking in Boston, in Philadelphia PA, deep in the heart of Texas, on down the Frisco bay. All over Saint Louis, and down in New Orleans. All the cats want to dance with sweet little sixteen!"

The lyrics rolled off the tongue of a Texan man, strumming away happily on his guitar. Around him sat other mercenaries, all wearing neutral colors to show that they believed in the alliance that was being forged around the small campfire in the middle of the desert.

Clearly drunk, the two beaten up scouts leaned against each other, beer in hand, and joined in singing along.

"Sweet little sixteen, she's just to have about half a million framed autographs! Her wall is filled with pictures, she gets them one by one. Becomes so excited, oh watch her at the run boy!"

Laughter filled the air as the battle from earlier that day was forgotten. There was nothing a good beer or ten and good music couldn't fix. At least, that's what the engineer with the guitar thought.

Smiling at the sight, the RED pyromaniac took of her mask. Wait, her? Arm slung around the BLU sniper, she sang happily to The Beatles song, ignoring the stares from her drunk colleagues.

"Oh mommy mommy, please may I go? You know it's such a sight to see somebody steal the show! Oh daddy daddy, I beg of you! Please say it to mommy it's alright with you."

The voices of the mercenaries filled the landscape, scaring the small animals that called the desert their home away. There was Gabriele Laurent, RED spy, Liam Robinson, RED sniper, Lachlan Elu, BLU sniper, Vuur DeGroot, RED pyromaniac, James Smith, BLU scout, Avery Fischer, RED scout, and Robert Inzynier, RED engineer. During the past weeks, they were at each other's throats, fighting for something they didn't believe in. That night though, as the moon smiled down at them, it was the beginning of something new. Something that would make the worst enemies crumble, and fight the true evil.

The seven soldier's voices joined together, forming a beautiful, unforgettable harmony.

"Sweet little sixteen she's got the grown up blues! Tight dresses and lipstick, she's sporting in high heeled shoes. Oh but tomorrow morning she'll have to change her trend, become sweet sixteen and back in class again."

Eda leaned back against the cold rock, hiding his form from the drunken warriors behind him. He scowled at the serenity of it all. They were traitors. All of them. Standing up, he walked away silently, absolutely disgusted with the scene behind him. It was hideous to think that the people he fought to protect would gallivant around with the enemy team. Scarred, calloused hand slipping into his pockets, he turned his face to the heavens, and gently sang to himself.

"They're really rocking in Boston, in Philadelphia PA, deep in the heart of Texas and down the Frisco Bay. All over Saint Louis, on down in New Orleans. All the cats want to dance with sweet little sixteen."


	7. Omegle helped me figure out if he died

The heat of the desert sun beat down mercilessly, scorching any living being that dared step into its deadly rays. At one hundred thirty one degrees Fahrenheit, every soul that still could still respire hid in the gloom of any possible edifice. The overpowering calefaction from the sun suppressed common logic among the beings in the desert, reason being abandoned for need to cool down. So naturally, the mercenaries of RED and BLU didn't notice that a few key members of their teams were missing.

James struggled uselessly against the bonds on his wrists. He couldn't see, he couldn't talk, he couldn't move. He was trapped. Thrashing against the floor, his covered green eyes welled up with tears. This was it. He was going to die here. It was mere moments before that the tortured screams of Gabriele filled the air of the small barn. The American didn't want to know how his French friend met his demise. Why? Because he knew that it would just make him panic all the more.

Putting his hands on his back, Eda leaned backwards, cracking his spine in several places. Even in simple shorts and a tank top, the heat was overwhelming. Yawning, he stretched his arms behind him. In the end, Deraschoen would always be a pyromaniac though. He was born to handle the heat.

Flipping his welding mask over his eyes, a torch found its way into the strong hands. The cold metal pipe snapped loudly as the intense flame worked its way over the its hard surface. Sweat poured down the sturdy body of the man wielding the flame, causing old burn scars to ache in remembrance of the days they were made. The solid metal underneath his glove hand slowly heated up, glowing a dazzling white color. The torch stopped, and he flipped up the mask, examining the brilliant white end with a critical eye. Deeming it was enough, he turned around to face his next victim.

"We could've been friends, Lachlan. But you betrayed me."

The marksman glared at the pyromaniac, eyes filled with hate. He was tied to a tall wooden beam, mouth gagged.

Eda chuckled deeply, walking closer to the sniper, scorching pipe in hand.

"I know this must be hard for you, considering you're used to be the hunter. But," the pipe twirled delicately between his fingers, "I'm afraid that you won't be able to hunt again."

A flicker of fear shot through grey eyes as a hand gently caressed his face, it's owner crouching down in front of him.

"I'm sorry."

There were no words strong enough to describe the pain that coursed through Lachlan's veins at that moment. The feeling was hideous. The feeling of the sweltering metal jammed into his eye socket, burning flesh and nerves. Bloody streams of tears running down his face as his muffled, tortured screams filled the air. Metal met bone as the pipe was shoved in deeper, awesome pain overloading the fragile receptors in his brain. It was too much! The blood, the pain, the feeling, _oh god the feeling!_

Eda pulled the pipe out the other man's head with a sickening popping noise. In place of what used to be one of the most talented eyes in the world lie a gaping hold, destroyed eyeball and blood leaking out of it. Crimson liquid stained the once pure bandages that held back the defeated whimpers that escaped the strained throat of Lachlan. But he wasn't done here.

"Try sniping now, hun."

Another thing the men at BLU wouldn't notice. A missing spoon.

Said spoon was dug out of Eda's pocket and held against the sensitive flesh surrounding the Australian's last eye.

"Why so serious?"

Tears streamed down James' cheeks as the screams of his friend filled the air again. What was going on? What was that demon doing to him? Images flashed through the darkness that covered his green eyes. He remembered when he first got to the base, all alone, no one to talk to, no one to support him. He remembered the first time he killed someone. He remembered throwing up more than he ever had before after, foreign hands holding him steady. He remembered looking up to see Lachlan, sympathetic smile covering his usually apathetic face. The screams intensified in the background as another popping noise echoed through the small building.

_"It's okay, mate. We all live, and we all die. When you're out here, you have to fight to live. Hey, don't start crying on me, you filthy lil wanker. Come on, let's go get you cleaned up. Oh, my name's Lachlan by the way. Looks like you and I are going to have to stick together, considering we're the last sane people in this desert."_

As he sat there, reminiscing about the time he had spent with the sniper, James didn't register that the screams stopped, and the footsteps walked over to him.

A razor sharp blade pressed against the runner's Achilles' Tendon, pressure threatening to break the skin.

"Good luck running after this."


	8. Repeat after me mffmff BOOM HEADSHOT

THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING ME.

Yeah, this story sucks. I'm surprised you've even made it this far.

If you're reading this, message me.

I will legit make you a cookie.

No, for serious.

I will.

Anyways, towards the end, I've become really lazy because this is due in a few days and I've got a bad case of writer's block.

END MY RANT.

The day had finally come. After much screaming, bullet wounds, and concussions, it had finally come. The two teams would meet, neutral colors signaling that they had friendly intentions. They would finally come together, settle their differences, and attempt to assassinate Christian and Drew Mann.

One thing was wrong though.

Four people were missing.

Jane growled, turning to the rest of the RED team. "Where are those useless maggots? James and Lachlan were the ones who set this up!" He swung his shovel uselessly through the air, venting out some of his anger. "And Eda! That no good, mumbling, fire show freak should've been here hours ago!"

Gently touching his still shining black eye, Avery walked over to the other American, not afraid to get up into the veteran's face. "Yeah, why don't ya tell us where dey are? Dis could be a trap to kill us or something."

Before the soldier could beat the kid's head in with his shovel, the unmasked RED pyromaniac pulled Avery back, jerking him to face her. Cold blue eyes met piercing green ones and the woman rolled her eyes, pushing the loud mouthed brat back to wear the rest of her team was standing. Walking up to Jane, she smiled at him. "Sorry about Abe. He's an obnoxious brat. And besides, we're missing someone too."

Almost as if on cue, the crack of a sniper rifle filled the air. Eyes widening briefly, the sole female on either team dropped like a bag of elephant dung, a hole through her head.

Immediately, the BLU team sprung to action, attacking the RED team with whatever they had. Insults were screamed and tensions ran high as the two teams fought it out, only having their melee weapons to beat the life's out of whoever they could.

Avery grabbed on to the back of Jane's shirt, tugging him harshly towards him, bat meeting skull with a sickening crack. Hearing a click, he instinctively dropped to the ground, pushing the dead body away. Shot gun bullets buried into the ground, inches away from his spine. Quickly, he rolled over, hopping on his feet again to be faced with the BLU engineer, Dell.

Through the scope of the deceased sniper's Mosin-Nagant M44, Eda watched the last two mercenary exchanged terse words. Dell and Avery. Dell... A sigh escaped his lips as he set down the rifle, leaning back. Dell had been his friend for God knows how long. Despite being quite rude to him at first, they had formed a strong friendship in the year and a half Dell had worked at Teufort. The Texan genius had changed Eda, for the better. Maybe that's why in a spur of the moment action, the pyromaniac had run down, out of the dead building, towards the spot where his friend now fought for his life.

"Dell!"


	9. Lub dub is a scientific term No joke

The drum pounded in Eda's sensitive ear drums. That noise! That horrible percussion! It was enough to drive a man into the vat of sickness known as insanity. Struggling to stand up, the man tried to run away from it, a scream of pain escaping his blood covered lips.

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub.

Enough! A injured arm swung out in front of the form, trying to push that racket away. The rock beneath his heavy feet felt like mountains to the man, each one draining his energy and crumbling his will. Bullets pierced his thick suit, it not being able to handle the power of a Berretta Model 38 at point blank range. Avery had killed Dell, and how could Eda stand for that, even if he had no weapon to fight with? Brown eyes closed for a fraction of a second, hiding the scarred soul from its creator.

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub.

When had he fallen? He had only closed his eyes for a second. The crimson dirt felt cold against his face, staining it with the very liquid that was draining from his body. Blood flowed freely from the punctures in his torso, and his now broken nose. Wasn't this ironic? Laughing bitterly, he began to cough, blood now leaking out of his mouth. He had tried to save someone for once. Fate is a cruel lady though. Not only had he not been able to save his friend, but he was dying now. Where was his God now? Had he not promised to keep him safe?

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub.

Eda's vision began to fade, black tunnels surrounding everything we was looking at. Which, coincidently, was his last victim. The blond figure stared back at him, lifeless eyes giving him a modicum of satisfaction. Once you disarm a scout, it isn't hard to kill them. The pyromaniac had it down to a science really. Grab their forearm, pull them forward, spin around behind them and bring an elbow down on their exposed neck. Instant death, every time.

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub.

The steady beat pulsated in his ears, soon becoming the only thing he could concentrate on. At first, hearing it had been something to be angry at. There's no way the great serial killer Eda could be hearing it now! But, sanity gradually returned him as the tainted blood drained from his body. His own heart beat was now keeping tempo to his death. How fitting.

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub.

Tired eyelids closed, breathing regulating. The man could almost feel him back at his old home. The smell of fire and blood, the sound of helicopters roaring over the innocent Ukrainian town. World War Two was not a good time for him. Yet, it was where he grew up. It was his home. The sound of helicopters became prominent though. It actually sounded as if there was one right beside him..

Brown eyes shot open, looking at the large air craft nay one hundred yards away. What was going on here? Who was that?

Two men, dressed in purple suits hopped out of the chopper, looking quite disgusted that they weren't in a five star hotel. They walked over, steps fast and hurried. Behind them trotted two more men, both dressed in white uniforms carrying a stretcher.

Vision blackening, the dying mercenary managed to croak out whilst coughing up blood, "W-who are you?"

"I'm Drew Mann. We've been watching your performance on the field for quite a while now, Mr. Deraschoen. After talking with my brother, we've agreed that we could use your talents somewhere else. Congratulations."

Feeling the two medics put him on the stretcher, beginning to try and bring him back to a stable state, Eda smirked, a red light tainting his eyes. Watch out world, your worst nightmare now had a monopoly on your life.

2


End file.
